


Smell, Sight, Sound, Taste and Touch

by libraryv



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: F/M, Romance, not a lot of plot/a whole lot of feelings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-12
Updated: 2019-04-15
Packaged: 2020-01-12 02:39:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 5,988
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18437303
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/libraryv/pseuds/libraryv
Summary: Strike and Robin's tangled feelings reach an undeniable peak. Five chapters; each framed with the theme of a different one of the five senses.





	1. Smoke & Roses

**Author's Note:**

> I wanted to try something framed by the senses: they are such good inspiration for an outward reflection of feeling. I wanted this one to "feel out loud." We'll see how it goes.

Strike looked up from the laptop screen, rubbing a large hand across his bleary eyes. He shook out his wrist and cast a glance at his watch. 2:06 am. He needed a cigarette, he decided. Getting up with a groan, his eyes drifted back to the computer screen on his desk. Going through security footage was tedious work, and he knew that keeping his mind sharp was key.

He limped to the door, making his way down the stairs, his aching leg protesting with every step. At the doorway (finally!) he was able to light up. He leaned against the door frame, shaking out his match. The smell of sulphur hovered in the air, the first smoky draw bringing calm. He closed his eyes for a long moment. Opened them again.

Denmark Street was relatively quiet. The Tottenham closed for the night; its empty tables and gleaming bar top visible from the darkened windows. Music thudded quietly from a flat along the row. Dimly, Strike heard laughter through an open window somewhere across the street.

Strike blew smoke out into the early morning air and checked his watch again, registering that another fifteen minutes had passed. She was now 21 minutes late. He tried, and failed, to suppress the unease growing in the back of his mind. He inhaled, stretching his neck from side to side. Robin was a capable woman. She had shown it countless times, over and over again, in countless ways. She was so capable he wouldn’t even have the business without her. This knowledge didn’t stop Strike’s mind showing him an image of Robin’s arm, that delicate skin scarred forever.

24 minutes late.

 _Capable,_ he told himself firmly. He didn’t allow his thoughts to proceed any further, but neither could he abandon his lookout at the doorway. It felt better to be standing – standing felt close to doing something. Standing felt ready for action.

Strike didn’t notice any chill. His forearms bare, sleeves rolled up to the elbows, attention focused solely on the street corner a few hundred yards away, his mind willing a red-gold head to appear, walking towards him. He was not an anxious man. Robin had been late before. Strike himself had been late more times than he could count. It was the mercurial nature of the job; the way the mission twisted and shifted on you. Facts could change, trails could disappear. Reticent people could open up, suddenly. Leads could appear out of thin air, and opportunities had to be grabbed.

Why, then, was he indulging in an uncharacteristic bout of worry? Strike’s imagination showed him Robin, trapped and held at gunpoint. Rapheal Chiswell’s arrogant face smiled smugly behind the trigger.

Another inhale. Another release of smoke, the scent bringing echoes of routine, soothing his frayed nerves. Any second now, Robin would be turning the corner, walking towards him. She’d give him that bright smile of hers, tired, but happy with a job well done. He knew that feeling well, felt it everyday, saw it reflected and mirrored in her. That shared feeling, that sense of a similar purpose, was something Strike not only liked about their relationship, it was something he cherished.

His mind was straying into dangerous territory. He had gone down this mental road before, each time coming to the same uncomfortable agreement with himself: _change nothing._ The depth of his feelings for Robin, which he had long since given up denying, could never be addressed. He couldn’t afford the risk of steering everything badly wrong. 

Every day, every morning; her energy, her smile. Her curiousity, her resourcefulness. Her kindness, her empathy. Her natural beauty, her floral scent. 

Every day Robin continued to be an exemplary partner and a perfect friend. Every day he fell harder. 

_Fuck this._

He was almost at the end of his cigarette, the tip glowing hot in the dark before cooling into ash. 

Strike took a last inhale, drawing comfort from the fact that this one small action was predictable. The smoke had brought about a strengthened resolve: no need to upset the happy equilibrium.

The sound of footsteps broke through his thoughts. Robin turned the corner, her face breaking into a smile. Relief flooded his veins, more powerful than nicotine. She came up to where he stood, taking in his cigarette stub and bare arms. 

“Hungry?” She held up the bag of takeout she was carrying. 

“Always.” Strike stood aside and let her pass, the slight scent of roses going straight to his head and undoing, in a second, all his careful negotiating with himself.


	2. Blue

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Robin tests uncharted waters and uses her powers of observation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go with **sight**!

Robin’s date had been perfectly fine. Tyler Sutherland had been a good listener with a pleasant sense of humour. He was polite to the wait staff when they got his order wrong. He told her funny stories from his time teaching English in Japan, but was equally interested in learning about her own life. His smile was bright and open, his hazel eyes had sparkled at her when he laughed.

They had not lasted past dinner. If Robin was being entirely honest with herself, Tyler’s laughing eyes were not the pair she most wanted to be sitting across from. 

Eyes that were a deep blue, that assessed and seemed to always be reading her thoughts – those were the eyes that kept swimming into view.

The date with Tyler had ended, like all of Robin’s dates in the past few months, the same way: with her staring into the bottom of an empty wine glass, alone at the Tottenham. It was time to stop hiding from her feelings, Robin decided suddenly, her second glass of the evening giving her a sense of (misguided?) daring. Time to test the waters and see how far she really was.

“Hi.”

She looked up; the tall figure of Strike had appeared before her. 

Her heart lifted; it always did at the sight of him. It was a fact of her daily life that she routinely ignored. Not tonight.

“I’m getting a pint – want another?” He gestured to her wineglass. 

“Yes please.”

Robin watched Strike’s tall figure cut its way through the crowd towards the bar. She saw people move aside, saw men give him a slight distance and saw women give him second glances. Strike’s dark head bent towards the barman, who looked rather harried. She could see Strike’s patient expression as he explained his order.

He was unfailingly courteous to everyone. Robin had seen Strike interact with people from all walks of life, and he had the same inherent respect for each person. He withheld opinion, weighed facts, never judged. 

He must have sensed her watching him; he looked over his shoulder and saw her. He didn’t look away, and Robin felt her cheeks flush as he held her gaze across the crowded room. The barman gave Strike their drinks; his  
attention was pulled back as he picked them up with a nod. 

He set the drinks on the table and raised his in a toast.

“I finished the Morley case today. He paid up and left happy.” 

There was no mention of her date, which she knew very well she had told him about a mere two hours ago, leaving the office. It both relieved and bothered her that he didn’t appear to be curious. 

“Well done. Another satisfied customer.” She smiled at him and took a sip of her wine, aware of those dark eyes assessing her.

“I didn’t expect to see you here. You rushed out of the office in enough of a hurry.” Strike smiled at her, teasing. 

“I rushed out of dinner in a hurry, too. Turns out Tyler isn’t the one for me,” Robin returned, cheekily.

They treaded so carefully around each other’s personal lives, a veneer of innocent inquiries and teasing masking a well of feelings neither acknowledged.

Strike’s mouth lifted at the corner, his eyes crinkling. He looked at her, and Robin felt, again, that he was reading her thoughts.

“Not a soulmate, eh? Too bad.” 

“Yeah, well. I think my soulmate might actually already be here at this table with me,” she joked.

She was good at reading reactions; she saw her comment land, saw his eyes widen for a fraction of a second before understanding set in as he grinned at her wine glass. 

“That particular partner will give you a lot of headaches.”

“I think I deserve somebody who makes me feel as good as this glass of wine right now.” Robin’s eyes met his over the rim of her glass, part jest, part challenge.

The air between them changed. Strike lifted his eyebrows.

“You deserve,” Strike said, looking at her, “somebody who makes you feel unstoppable. Somebody who sees everything you can do, and who can add to it without taking anything away.”

Robin couldn’t tear her gaze from his. There was a sense of going in a direction they hadn't gone before. He continued, leaning forward, those blue eyes fixed on hers.

“Robin. You are the most incredible person I’ve ever met. You deserve a partner who makes you feel that way.”

Robin looked at the table, pretending to be deep in thought, willing her eyes not to betray her. She felt slightly out of breath. Strike sat back in his chair, taking a long draw from his pint. He put down the empty glass, starting to get up.

“I’ll go pay. This one’s on me.”

Robin waited until he had left for the bar, then looked up. It was lucky she had looked down; the tears threatening would surely have betrayed the storm of emotions his words had brought on. She had never before spoken to him about what she wanted in a life partner: Strike had never before looked at her the way he had tonight.


	3. The Sound of Your Voice

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin share a phone call; tone of voice directs the conversation.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sound was tough - I knew I wanted to end with touch (evil grin) and start with scent, but wasn't sure how to make the most of sound. in the end, I had a lot of fun with this.

Strike glanced out the window at the curtain of rain. Miserable weather to be out in; he hoped Robin wasn’t still working. Drenched, cold, and grumpy, he finished toweling off his face and hair the best he could. He put the kettle on and internally debated the merits of removing his prosthetic versus the inconvenience of moving around without it.

A compromise: he had thrown himself with grateful abandon onto their old couch and had just settled into the perfect spot when there was a sound like a giant whoosh. The whole building seemed to give one giant shake, and the lights went out.

Was it worth the struggle to get up again and get his tea? There were candles and an emergency torch somewhere in the top right cupboard. He decided stay put, and closed his eyes. The wind howled outside. Alone, relaxed, surrounded by darkness – Strike allowed his thoughts to travel to their favourite, and forbidden, subject of Robin. 

The Tottenham last night – she had been guiding the conversation, deliberately pushing them into uncharted territory. He knew what she was doing – the question was, why? 

A long-buried hope had come back to life as she had looked at him over her glass. She had thrown out a challenge, he had answered with his own. 

His mobile vibrated; he knew before he looked that it would be the person currently occupying his mind. 

“Let me guess,” came her teasing voice down the line. “You were sitting on the couch when the lights went out, and you decided it wasn’t worth getting up for a candle. You’re sitting there all alone in the dark, aren’t you?”

He grinned. “Right in one.”

He heard her fight a yawn. “Long day?” he asked gently. They had both been tailing cases that afternoon.

“Yeah. Maybe I’ll go by the Tottenham – oh wait, they don’t have power. Of course.”

Strike paused. Had she mentioned the pub on purpose? He threw caution to the wind. 

“About last night - I meant what I said. About what you deserved.” It was easier speaking the words into the dark. 

He heard her quiet breathing; tried to picture her reaction.

“Robin.”

“Yes?” 

He wasn’t imagining it – her voice was hopeful, expectant. “I want you to be happy. That’s all I want.”

He heard her let out a breath. Had he said it right? Did she catch his meaning? Christ, why was it so hard to be direct about this? 

“Maybe more dates will help with that – or more glasses of wine.” Her tone had changed, back to lighthearted, but also reserved. Had he screwed it up?

“I-“ he cleared this throat. _Try again. Say what you mean, you bloody idiot._ He could do this.

He heard her take a deep breath.

“So, you do realize you have to get up for dinner at some point.” There was a warning behind the playful words; the topic had changed. 

He had missed his chance. Next time. 

“Hmmm. I can call for delivery.”

“Ah, but who will answer the door?” Her laughter was like a shot of alcohol, warming him and settling in his stomach.

“You’re right. Not worth it. Guess I’ll starve.” 

There was a comfortable beat of silence. Strike wondered where she was, currently. He pictured her in the tiny kitchen of her shared flat, candles lit, making tea and keeping busy. He missed her with a suddenness that took him by surprise; he wished, desperately, that she were there with him, instead.

“Are you home?” No – that sounded too suggestive, somehow. “Warm and dry?” he clarified, injecting casualness into his voice.

“Yes. I’m home. It’s peaceful with the power out, isn’t it?”

“Robin.” Strike was filled with a need to tell her everything. He didn’t just want her to be happy, he wanted to be a part of that happiness. He wanted to share in in, participate in it, _be the reason for it,_ every day.

_Tell her._

“I’m actually getting rather sleepy,” her voice was blurred with a touch of sleepiness.

Strike reigned in his feelings with effort. “Then I’ll let you get some sleep.”

“And you get some dinner.” Her words flavoured with an affection and familiarity that went straight to his heart.

He closed his eyes. “Goodnight, Robin.”

“Goodnight, Cormoran.”


	4. Champagne

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike's dislike of champagne is seriously challenged.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I had originally been planning a different direction entirely, but then I was in the mood for something sweet between them. This is champagne-inspired fluff. (Learned that term today, ha!)

“Join me in raising your glasses to the most infuriatingly happy couple I know: to Nick and Ilsa.” Strike raised his glass towards his friends, the crowd of people filling the room chanting, “To Nick and Ilsa!” There were cheers, clapping, and happy laughter as Nick leaned forward and gave his wife a kiss.

Robin watched them, a kind of happy ache forming a lump in her throat as she watched people surge forward to wish a happy anniversary to the couple. 

She grabbed a glass of champagne from a passing tray and headed through the French doors to the hotel balcony. The summer air was cool on her flushed skin, and she leaned on the railing, closing her eyes. The band began to play.

Robin felt his presence, knew it was him. Strike’s loping gait was as familiar to her as her own. He came up beside her, his arm pressed gently against her own. She felt the hair on his forearms gently tickling her skin, the cold metal of his watch breaking up the heat of him.

She opened her eyes to find him staring at her, holding his own glass of champagne. He smiled, but his brows were drawn together.

“Having a moment? I didn’t mean to interrupt.”

She shook her head. “I’m fine. I’m just – stealing a second to feel sorry for myself.” 

“Ah. Yes, anniversaries do tend to put one’s own life in perspective.” 

Robin picked up her flute of champagne and took a gulp. Bubbly and sweet. 

She watched as Strike took a sip from his. 

“I thought you didn’t like champagne.”

“I don’t. But. When in Rome.” He winked at her and drank again.

She looked back at Strike, planning to say something witty and cavalier, but he had taken her hand firmly in his, facing them both slightly away from the balcony. 

“Wha-?”

Strike turned her slightly towards him, raised one mischievous eyebrow, then spun her out, firmly. She barely had time to let out a surprised gasp of delight before he spun her back, his other hand coming to rest on her waist. 

Robin laughed as he held her, her heart pounding. She looked up into his eyes, crinkling back at her. He was swaying them gently in time to the music.

“Didn’t see that coming, I bet.”

She laughed again. “No, I didn’t. If anybody had told me Cormoran Strike would dance with me this evening, I would not have believed them.”

“I wouldn’t have, either.” He grinned again.

Robin let her hand drift to his chest. His tie was loosened, his collar slightly open. She could feel his heartbeat.

“That evening, two nights ago," Strike began. "When the power went out.” Robin looked at him, his blue eyes searching hers. 

He continued. “I wanted to tell you something, and I didn’t do a very good job of it.”

They had stopped their swaying. 

“I’d like to try again, if you don’t mind.”

Robin nodded, breathless. They were finally, inevitably, crossing the line that had been drawn since day one. Strike bent his head down, closer towards her. She was looking up at him, drinking him in. He smelled like champagne.

“Robin.” He was so close. She could see him swallow .“You changed my life. Almost from the moment I met you-“

He gave his head the tiniest shake, his lips lifting as he let out a gentle huff of disbelief.

“I’m in – I’m in complete awe of you. It’s taken me so bloody long to realize – it’s always been you, Robin. I’m yours.”

She was beaming at him.

His fingers, she realized, were trembling slightly in her hand. He hadn’t stopped looking at her. Slowly, letting himself smile back at her, he brought her fingers to his lips, kissing them. 

Robin could feel her eyes filling. She squeezed his hand, then lifted her mouth to his. His lips were gentle, that rough stubble scratching delightfully in contrast. He brushed his tongue lightly across, asking a wordless question. She opened her mouth to his.

She gave a tiny hum of pleasure, felt one of his hands run gently through her hair and tangle his fingers in it, then travel down, brushing the side of her body. Strike tasted slightly of champagne, slightly of smoke. He tasted absolutely delicious.

They slowed, breaking the kiss at the same time. Strike rested his forehead against hers, his breath slightly ragged. Suddenly shy, she turned her head, resting her cheek on his chest. She felt his chin in her hair. She gave him a tentative kiss on his chest, his skin warm and with a hint of salt, slightly sweaty from the warm summer evening. 

“You’re just full of surprises tonight,” she said softly. 

She felt the rumble of his laugh. “So are you. I wasn’t entirely sure how that gamble would play out. I could have easily been making my way back to my room right now, depressed and alone.”

She lifted her head to look into his eyes. “Good thing I’ve been waiting for you to do that forever.” She spotted something over his shoulder.

“Still don’t like the taste of champagne?”

He smiled at her. “I think I might be warming to it.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One last "sense" to go: it's touch...and if you don't know what kind of chapter that will be, you're in the wrong place. ;)


	5. 5a: Two Can Play

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Strike and Robin have a good time with _touch._  
>  Hopefully you will, too. :D

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I reaaallly wanted to do this justice: touch being, after all, a pretty important sensation, romance-wise. (Especially in the context of this chapter!) ;)  
> I wanted to give Strike and Robin a lot of time with this one, so I ended up splitting it into two parts.

It had been two days, Robin reflected, her feet marching briskly towards the office, since Nick and Ilsa’s anniversary party.

It had been two days since Robin and Strike had kissed, and Robin had reached a state close to desperation. Her feet marching briskly on the sidewalk towards the office, she was relieved to finally be seeing him. Her mind traveled back to the night of the party, after the kiss.

Ilsa, slightly giggly and very tipsy, had swung onto the balcony and caught Robin and Strike in their embrace. They had been subject to a thorough round of cheeky comments and radiating smugness, but Ilsa had promised she wouldn’t expose them, then left them to each other. 

The problem was, the party had immediately taken over the evening. Strike had been borne away by Nick’s buddies, Ilsa had insisted on Robin dancing with her group of friends, and after a few too many glasses of champagne (which an elated and drunk Robin had been confused about: did champagne now remind her of Strike? Or did Strike now remind her of champagne?) Robin had been seen back to her hotel room by an equally wobbly Ilsa.

Two days and a few painfully businesslike texts later, she and Strike had yet to have a moment to themselves. 

The desire to see him, to talk to him, but mostly, to touch him: it was driving her mad.

Robin fairly raced up the building stairs, her heart pounding at the thought of finally seeing Strike sitting there, in his office chair…she turned the knob, and-

Locked. Oh. He was still out. She pulled out her keys and opened the door to the empty office, the summer evening light softening the angles of the desk, catching the old couch in a fading sunbeam.  
Robin kicked off her shoes and stood with her hands on her hips, the wind rather taken out of her sails. Where was he? She went over to the computer and double-checked the schedule. Yes, they were both due back for a debriefing at six. She glanced at her watch. 6:32. He should definitely be here. 

Just as Robin was debating whether or not to go out and get some food, she heard his unmistakeable, heavy footsteps on the stairs. She felt flustered, then felt silly. She smoothed down her hair, arranged her face into what she hoped was a neutral but pleasant expression, and waited for him to come through the door, a smile on his face. Would it be awkward to go to him, embrace him, bury her face in his coat?

“Bloody hell. Robin? You in there?” came the gruff voice, startling her. 

“Yes! Er – everything okay?” Thoughts of a romantic embrace flew out of her head. 

“Yeah, I’ve just – fuck! Sorry, I’ve just got my hands full-dropped a carton – Christ, it’s opened up all over the-“

Robin opened the door to find Strike standing with a rather sheepish expression on his face, both hands carrying bulging bags of Chinese takeout, staring at a container of fortune cookies that had tipped open on the floor. 

She laughed, and he grinned. 

“I thought you might be hungry.”

“You bring those in, I’ll clean this up.” Robin stood aside and let Strike pass, then picked up the cookies and followed him in.

She busied herself in the kitchen, getting them drinks as Strike put out the food and took off his coat. He stood and leaned against the door frame. 

“Need any help?”

Robin turned to smile at him. “I can manage two glasses of water.”

He smiled back, although his expression was serious as he looked at her. Robin took a step towards him, away from the counter. 

“Would you like ice, or-?”

Strike stood straight up and shook his head as he moved forward a step, still looking right at her.

“Ice isn’t what I’m thinking about right now.”

A thrill shot down Robin’s spine. She took another step towards him, closing the gap between them.

“Do you-“

“Forget the fucking water,” whispered Strike, and kissed her.

It was a different kiss than the one they had shared at the hotel; there was urgency to it. Their feelings having finally reached a peak, with no outlet other than that evening – Robin had been waiting for this for two days, or maybe, if she was being honest, even for two years. She couldn’t remember wanting anything more, and now that it was happening – the two of them, alone – 

Her tongue met Strike’s, the rush of finally making the connection she had longed for going straight to her head, making her dizzy. His hands went down her back; she felt his large palms through the thin material of her summer t-shirt, then sweeping underneath the hem, warm on her bare skin.

She was light-headed with desire, pressing herself against him; she couldn’t get close enough. His shirt was undone, his breathing ragged. Her hands exploring the feel of him, the solidity of his broad chest and wide shoulders, his softer stomach, back around his waist, fingers scratching gently up his spine and tangling into his hair. He made a sound, lost in their kiss, and his arms came down again, following the curve of her bottom in her jeans. Wanting more, desperate for more, Robin lifted her knee up against his hip, trying to angle herself against him, her body acting with a will of its own. Strike broke the kiss long enough to throw out, “I’ll lift-“ but couldn’t finish, his desire rushing him, his mouth back on hers, his tongue stroking hers, his arms going around her and firmly lifting her off the floor. She wrapped her legs around him, not caring if they toppled over, but he had her, he backed them up against the wall, pressing into her. One hand stayed supporting her, the other reaching up and cupping her through her bra. 

Robin moaned, rubbing herself against him, her nipples tightening. She began kissing his neck, stopping long enough to reach up and strip off her shirt.

Strike paused, his hands stilling at her waist. He didn’t say anything, his eyes roving over the bare skin of her shoulders, her collarbone. His eyes went back to her own. Robin lifted her hands from his shoulders and unclasped her bra, slowly pulling it off to one side and let it drop to the floor. Strike’s breathing hitched, then reverently, softly, he bent his head and breathed lightly onto the skin of her right breast, his stubble scratching lightly. It was beautiful torture, his lips feather light, barely touching her skin.

Robin gasped, her head going back, arching her chest into him. His mouth was almost-

Strike’s mouth found her nipple and gently sucked. Robin moaned, heat and pleasure rushing between her legs. She ground her hips forward, frustrated. Both of Strike’s arms went back around her bottom, and he lifted her again, walking them the few short steps to the desk. He sat her on it, her legs immediately wrapping around him again, bringing them together, her hands going between them and finding the bulge in his pants. She stroked him, once, twice, enjoying his reaction, his balance faltering for the first time; one of his palms landed flat on the desk behind her to steady himself.  
Robin’s hands were undoing his belt, had found their way into his boxers, were holding his rock-hard erection. She was panting as hard as he was, his eyes not leaving hers until she increased the pace, and he closed his eyes and exhaled through his nose. 

Strike opened his eyes and gave her a heated grin. “Two can play at this.”


	6. 5b: Finally

Strike leaned forward, kissing her, his tongue sweeping across hers, his hand cupping the back of her head. Her hands on him lost their rhythm, and drifted up onto his chest again, so lost in the kiss she was almost unaware of Strike gradually using his weight to push her back onto the desk. Strike had laid her flat, he had pushed her farther up along the desk; he was kissing his way down her naked torso, rasping against her delicate skin, his thumbs stroking the skin just underneath the waist of her jeans. She lifted her hips, begging without words, and he tugged her jeans and underwear off. His hands went back up along her legs, stroking them, slowly moving up, leisurely across, drifting across her core. Robin felt as if every nerve ending she had was on fire with need; she was practically vibrating with it.

He looked at her, a devilish grin on his face. He bent his head down, as if in slow motion, his breath hovering over the sensitive skin at her opening, driving her wild. He licked, once, his tongue deliberate. 

Her body jumped, she inhaled sharply. His tongue again, then his lips, gentle but firm, sucking her. 

Robin had her eyes closed; her heart was pounding in her ears. There was nothing else in the world except the feel of his mouth on her. She was hardly aware of where she was, she had surrendered all thought. Her hips lifted again, and she moaned. She was so close, Strike’s skillful tongue stroking, licking, her torso bowed off the desk, Strike’s hand firm on her hip, keeping her in place-

Stars burst behind her eyes, pleasure pulsing through her in one, two, three beats of her heart, her body lying back down, flat on the desk. Moments later (was it minutes?) she became aware of Strike’s hands on her hips, his thumbs stroking idly. 

She opened her eyes – he raised an eyebrow at her, and, amazingly, blushed.

Slowly, she sat up and scooted to the edge of the desk, wrapping her arms around his neck. She smiled at him. 

“You certainly are worth the wait,” she said softly, teasingly.

He let out a huff of laughter and raised an eyebrow.

“I might have been waiting longer than you, to do that.” His expression was playful, suggestive.

She pulled his face to hers, kissing him. Strike’s body leaned into hers, his hips thrusting once.

Robin felt the hardness of his erection and pressed back against him, her hips moving against him in a slow rhythm. 

“Jesus Christ, Robin-“ said Strike, gritting his teeth, his eyes squeezed shut, hands gripping the edge of the desk.

It was a thrill to have him like this, to see him fighting for some kind of control. Her body, flushed with pleasure, was beginning to ache, her desire rising again, to meet his.

Her hands reached for him, but Strike grabbed her wrists. He looked at her. 

“If you start, I can’t stop.”

Robin looked directly back at him. “I don’t want you to. I want this. I want – I want you, Cormoran.”  
He took a deep breath and closed his eyes again. Then he reached both arms around her and lifted her off the desk again. He kissed her neck, and whispered into her ear.  
“Then we’re going upstairs.”

 

They backed into Strike’s tiny flat, kissing madly, Robin gripping at him. The feel of him was a drug – she had a taste and now she couldn’t get enough. Her body was thrumming, aching, she had never felt such arousal in her life. The feel of him underneath her hands, his tongue, caressing and meeting hers, his slightly smoky scent, the tang of mint mingled with stout, the silky strands of his messy, tangled hair – she could touch him forever. She couldn’t process anything else – she wanted him inside her with a need that was taking over every other sense.

Strike was taking off his shirt behind his back, not breaking their kiss. Whatever leash he had on himself had snapped; she could feel his hunger, his control slipping by the second. They crashed onto his bed, he angled himself slightly under her, absorbing the impact. They were lying on their sides, facing each other, legs tangled. 

Robin was desperate, half-wild with need. Impatient, almost whining with each breath, she was at his belt, undoing it, then tugging at his pants. His hand flew out, stopping her once more.

An expression something like self-consciousness flashed across his face; there and gone so quickly she wasn’t sure she had seen it.

“My leg-“

“Cormoran,” Robin breathed, looking directly into his eyes. “I don’t bloody care.” She bit him gently on his earlobe for good measure, and his laugh turned into a groan.

His belt was undone, he shifted his weight and Robin pulled down his pants, helping get them kicked off completely one side. His boxers next. She pushed against him, pressing him onto his back, her knee coming up by his waist. He hooked one hand underneath her knee, the other hand on her side as he flipped back, bringing her completely on top. She stilled a moment, looking down at him, then rubbed her core slowly against the length of him.

Strike’s hips lifted; his hands clenched at his sides.

“Fucking hell,” he gasped out, flat on the bed again.

Filled with desire as she was, Robin suddenly found herself in no hurry. She loved seeing him like this. He raised his eyebrows.

“Planning on torturing me, are you?”

Robin grinned. “Just a little bit.” She rubbed herself along him again, thrilling at his groan. Sweat had broken out on his brow.

“Robin-“

His hands came up to rest on her hips. 

“Yes?” She was breathing hard again, his reaction to her heating her up. She lifted her hips, rubbing her entrance against the tip of him, slowly, moving up slightly.

Strike inhaled and grit his teeth. 

“Please,” he ground out.

It was enough – she came down again, this time onto him, a groan of pleasure escaping them both as he entered her.

She placed her palms on his chest – adjusting to the feeling of him, loving the full sensation of him inside her. She had dreamed about this moment more times than she would ever admit to herself, and the reality was far better.

He smiled at her, although she could see the effort it was costing him to appear nonchalant.

“I don’t know what you’re thinking, but here’s what I’m thinking: I’m the luckiest fucking guy alive right now.”

She moved her hips, slowly, saw him clench his teeth. 

Again. Again, a little faster, back and forth. Strike threw his head back, his neck arching, his hips thrusting up, his hands rougher on her hips now.

Robin increased her pace, loving the effect she was having on him, loving the feel of him inside her, loving the touch of his palms, heavy on her hips. Loving this man, who had encouraged her, believed in her, trusted her, been with her through more experiences she could count.

He was matching her now, their movements faster, together, and she could feel his pace going slightly wild, he was close-

He put his hand on her right one, wrapping her fingers in his, opening his eyes and looking at her with such an open expression of love that it was like a shot to her heart.

She came with him, a burst of ecstasy so thorough she couldn’t stay up; she collapsed onto his chest, their breath slowing in tandem. They stayed like that, the sounds of the Tuesday evening outside on the street reaching through the window.

Strike’s fingers trailed casually down her back.

Robin smiled.  
“I was thinking about how I couldn’t wait to touch you, earlier today, walking back to the office.”

Strike kissed her hair.

She continued, pushing herself up to see his face. “Cormoran, I don’t think I’ve ever wanted anything as much as I wanted you. And not just like this-“ she gestured between them, vaguely.  
“I’ve wanted you, in my life, for a long, long time.”

Strike’s blue eyes were fathomless. 

Robin looked down. All of a sudden, she couldn't meet his intense gaze.

“I think I’ve loved you since we became partners, after the Quine case. I - I don't know - is this what you want?”

Strike’s hand came under her chin, forcing her to meet his eyes.  
“Robin.” He smiled at her with the same expression as he had from a few moments ago, completely unguarded.   
“This is what I've always wanted. Always. I wanted you, all of you, in my life, before I even knew you.” 

Tears were springing to Robin's eyes. She smiled.

Strike raised his eyebrows.

"Alright?"

"Alright."

Strike grinned.  
"Good. Now let's go eat our dinner. I'm hungry." Robin laughed, then leaned down for another kiss.


End file.
